Christmas Morning
by D.M.P
Summary: It only comes once a year, a day of laughter and of cheer...for most, that is...


Author's Note: Oh, yes, and I feel _very_ festive this holiday season..... Oh, and I know that Jake might not celebrate the holidays the way I showed it, but I thought that multi-religious celebration was a pretty cool idea.

CHRISTMAS MORNING

by D.M.P.

Jake sat on his bed in his empty room. That room was clean, on parental orders that a home must be neat as a pin during the holidays. His bedspreads were still unruffled and neat, not because he made his bed that day, but because he hadn't slept in it the previous night. Darkness created its own blanket upon the room, for the shades were drawn shut over the cold ice-laced windows, so that the bright morning light didn't completely shine through, but instead slipped through the sides of the cover, a tiny glow penetrating a case of black.

In Jake's hands was an old baseball mitt. It had tattered leather lacing and a worn appearance. His left hand was tucked in the mitt's well-used pocket, created by hours of enthusiastic fist-pounding and games of catch. Jake looked at the glove. He had long out-grown it, but if he squeezed his hand tight into a fist, then he could probably make it fit.

"Jake!" His father's voice was heard from downstairs. "Jake, it's time to open the presents!"

Looking up from the glove, Jake called back, "Okay, Dad. I'll be there in a minute." But the boy didn't move; he holding the baseball glove tight in his hands instead. 

Even though Jake's sport of choice now was basketball, when he was younger baseball was his favorite all-American pastime. He remembered idolizing those boys of summer. Against his parent's wishes, he would stay up nights to catch the endings of games on television. He would memorize all of his favorite players' stats, and used to wear the hat of his best-loved team as if it was glued onto his head. Underneath his bed, he still had that baseball collection that he started when he was six. Jake used to have practically hundreds of books, posters and video tape recording of various games too. And sometimes, he and Tom would go outside during war, summer afternoons to play catch. 

However, all of that stopped about three years ago, when he decided that he would follow in his brother's steps and started to tag along with him to his basketball games. He had threw out most of his formerly treasured baseball memorabilia. The only thing that he had of this past obsession was those dusty cards and the mitt. He kept the cards because they had tripled in monetary value from when he first bought them. He kept the mitt because it was a priceless gift that had been given to him on Christmas. From who? His brother, of course. Tom.

"Jake!" His father's voice was slightly annoyed. "You don't want us to start without you, do you?"

"Coming!" Jake put the glove in its scared spot on the shelf and stepped out into the hall and went down the stairs.

The living room was draped with holiday cheer. A red and green wreath hung on the wall. Sprigs of holly was placed next to each window, with some mistletoe hanging over the doorway that Jake was then standing under. Classical music floated through the air, a Mozart contribute to the season. Yellow-orange flames leaped out of the burning fireplace, and four labeled stockings hung beneath them. His mother always overdone the decorations. Right then, she stepped into the room from the kitchen carrying a tray of cups filled with hot apple cider. She kissed her son on the cheek, handed him a mug and smiled. "Good morning, honey," she said.

Sipping the steaming brew, Jake looked at their "Christmas tree." It was a wonderfully decorated Norwegian spruce, its evergreen scent mixing with the cider smell in his nostrils. Yet instead of having the usual angel or five-pointed star on top, a beautiful Star of David graced the pinnacle of the tree. Jake smiled at the peculiar sight. Since his father was Jewish while his mother was Christian, the family had a different way of celebrating the holidays. They both observed Christmas and Hanukkah, but made a few adjustments to fit both occasion. The Christmas tree topped with the Star of David was one of them. Another was the family menorah place on the mantelpiece, right above the red and white stockings. They still exchanged gifts during Hanukkah; they just gave each other small presents on Christmas.

Tom was already sorting the gifts sitting under the tree. "I believe I got the most gifts this year, Midget," he grinned, making his final holiday count, including today and a week ago when Hanukkah ended.

A feeling of sadness suddenly washed over Jake as his brother spoke, because it wasn't really him speaking at all. A Yeerk controlled his brother's actions. Jake pretended to take a long sip to distract himself from the thoughts going through his head. How did Tom feel today? A smile was on his face, but that was just a control grin pasted on by that filthy slug. A slug that make him constantly joking, teasing, talking and acting like he was just fine. _But you're not fine_, Jake thought angrily. 

He quickly sat down onto the couch and wrapped his hands tightly around the ceramic mug. He took a swing from the cup and the hot liquid burned his tongue as it raced down his throat. _What is that slug saying to you now, Tom?_ Jake thought bitterly. _Is it ridiculing our holidays, our beliefs? Is it taunting you, asking if you are having as good a time at its having? Is it laughing at you right now, while you're just trapped inside and can't talk back?_ Pain welled up in him as he thought of what his brother might be going through at this very moment. _And I can't even help,_ came the angry thought. _No one can. Even today, where millions of people are experiencing one of the best days of the year, you're down in you're own burning hell. And I'm just stilling here drinking and smiling like an idiot, because I can't do a damn thing!_

Jake slammed the now empty mug on the table, making a loud _bang_ and rattling the tray that his mother had put down. Tom and their mother looked up from their sitting positions on the floor. "Getting a little impatient?" Tom asked teasingly as he lifted up a wrapped gift. 

Jake managed to laugh. It sounded more like a dying choke. "Yeah, that's what you think," he replied with false cheerfulness.

"Hey, you guys!" Jake's father came in with the video recorder on his shoulder. "Wave to the camera everybody!" For almost every special occasion, he took out that recorder to put everything on film. Jake found it annoying sometimes, and now he just wanted to grab it from his father's hands, throw it to the floor, and wipe that grin off his old man's face.

Tom jumped up and put his face up to the lens. "Is this good enough for you, Dad?" he asked and his parents chuckled. Jake looked away.

"Okay, time for unwrapping the gifts!" Jake's father mounted the camera on a tripod and sat down with the others on the floor. Jake remained on his spot on the couch, higher up than the others, looking down at the happy family.

Tom passed out the gifts. After receiving his share, Jake pretended to be more interested in observing his parents unwrap theirs gifts than observing his brother. It was almost like watching a television show, seeing a bunch of people having a good time while you just still there and watching. Tom was fooling around with the scrapes of wrapping paper and ribbon. He had one of those stick on bows on his head and continued to fool around. His parents laughed but Jake only continued staring. That damn Yeerk was making a mockery of his own brother, imitating everything he would have done.

After Tom and his parents were finished, they watched Jake uncover his gifts. Now it was his turn to be put on the spotlight. His actions came out mechanically, as orders from his tense brain. _Smile Jake. That's it. Undo the paper, lift open the box...oh, look a new watch. Okay, Jake, now thank your parents. Don't get angry at that Yeerk, not now. Just smile, and pretend that you are having a good time. That's it Jake, just smile and they'll think everything's fine._

One by one, Jake got through his gifts. He inwardly sighed with relief. Now just get up, Jake, you can get up and escape out of here. Jake gathered up his presents and muttered something about going to up all this stuff away.

"Wait a sec."

Jake turned around. It was his brother calling to him from across the room. No, not his brother, a Yeerk. The real Tom was calling, but Jake knew that he would never know what that Tom was saying.

"I got you something too. I know I probably wasted my money in doing that, but." Tom tossed a bright red box over to Jake. "Here."

Jake caught it and looked at his brother. Tom's eyes were bright, his face was a little flushed with excitement, and that stupid smirk still there. "Open it."

Slowly, Jake tore off the wrapping paper. It was a cheap, wooden picture frame. The photo showed the two grinning faces of him and his brother. He was just about seven then, with a ten-year old Tom over his shoulder smiling in that goofy way that made his ears stick out. In that young Jake's hand was a baseball mitt.

Unconsciously, Jake found himself shaking his head no. His hands started to wobble a bit as they clutched the frame. Jake blinked, swallowed down the heavy lump that was in his throat, and raised his head again to his brother. Tom had looked down and Jake knew the Yeerk was feigning embarrassment. "I-I just found it," he stuttered. "And figured, 'What the heck?'"

Tom walked up to him and gave Jake a friendly punch in the shoulder. Jake felt his heart thudding in his chest and fought off the shudder that he felt pass through him. "We're brothers, after all," Tom ended quietly. 

Jake nodded and broke away from Tom's stare. He had the feeling that if he looked at his brother for too long, that the Yeerk would see through his facade and know Jake's truth. He tried to walk backward but his legs seemed to be made of lead. _Smile, Jake._ Yet he stood stone still, trying to calm his boiling fury and hatred. _Smile._ His fists clenched together. The one that was wrapped around the picture frame tightened and Jake felt a splinter poke into his palm. _Smile, damn it!_

A cheap grin, like that painted on a wooden puppet, stretched across Jake's face. "Thanks, Tom," he said, trying to keep his voice steady and make it slightly embarrassed at his brother's affection. But the Yeerk was a much better actor than he was.

Tom nodded, gave a sincere big-brother pat on the shoulder, then went to help his parents clean up the wrapping paer mess. It was only then did Jake find the strength to walk out of the room and run up the stairs.

Into his bed room he came, trying hard not to slam the door. Managing to close it softly, Jake collapsed on the bed. He stared at that picture for a long time. The shadows of the room dulled the color and faded the happiness behind the glass._ How could have the Yeerk known that??? How could have it know that today...._ Jake looked at the old baseball mitt on the shelf. His vision blurred, and the darkness only made his sight worse. Quickly wiping his face on his shirt sleeve, Jake found himself walking toward the shelf. 

Jake stood before the glove, looking at its black, limp outline. A faint stream of light from the curtained window hit it and its dry, tan color was seen with sharp clarity. Speck of dust danced in the ray of light and showed jake's pale hands as he reached over and picked up the baseball mitt for the last time. He ran his hands over it. Soft leather brushed from underneath his finger tips. The faint smells of hide and sweat and oil came to his nose. 

Jake seemed to hug the old keepsake for a moment, feeling angry and sad that even his most hallowed memories were now flawed.

Taking one last look, Jake felt another part of him die inside. With dry eyes, he dumped the baseball mitt into the wastebasket. It made a soft _thud_ at it hit the metal bottom. Then taking the picture frame in his hand, he turned it face down, so that the smiling faces could no longer be seen. He shoved the frame under the bed to lay among the dusty cards and dead memories. 

And that was when the first tear fell that Christmas morning. 


End file.
